


only put the idea out there if i know it’s gonna float

by phae



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Accidental Baby Acquisition, Child Abuse, Communication Failure, Companionable Snark, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Kid Fic, M/M, except he's like four
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-19
Updated: 2014-03-26
Packaged: 2018-01-16 06:45:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1335874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phae/pseuds/phae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint says he needs to talk, but won't tell Phil what about. Phil, naturally, assumes the worst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. whoops! did i say it out loud? did you find out?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [icywind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/icywind/gifts).



> HAPPY BIRTHDAY HEIDI!!!
> 
> Title is from _I Wanna Have Your Babies_ by Natasha Bedingfield. I know it sounds kind of cracky, but it's a really fun song!
> 
> This isn't really canon compliant with the _Hawkeye_ comics, but parts of it are kind of based around it? If that makes sense.

Phil missed Clint. Unfortunately, it’d become more a state of being than a passing annoyance to be endured, since he'd been assigned to the Bus and Clint had officially signed on to the Avengers Initiative. Five years together and their relationship currently boiled down to playing phone tag, leaving each other long rambling voicemails, the occasional phone call when the time zones sync up, and the infrequent weekend together when Phil’s downtime coincided with the Bus being stationed near New York.

 

All of which would be difficult enough to deal with if things between them weren’t already so strained from Loki’s attack and the resulting fallout. Things had been kind of ridiculously good until Pegasus sunk into the ground. They’d been looking at apartments together, Clint’s face had stopped draining of all color when they walked past a jewelry store and Phil would pause to glance in the window, and there was a drawer at Phil’s place full of t-shirts that he didn't know whether they belonged to him or Clint.

 

But then Clint was forced to attack his friends and allies, Phil was declared dead and moved off-grid, and Clint mourned—both for Phil and the life he no longer trusted himself to step back into.

 

All that said, things didn’t really start to tank until a little over eight months in to Phil’s Bus assignment, when Phil got a voicemail message:

 

_“Hey, darlin’. It’s, uh, Clint. I mean, obviously. So, hey. I just, uh, needed to talk to you. S’why I called. Call me when you get this? Don’t worry about the time, or waking me up or anything. I just, I really need to talk. About things. Okay, so, I’ll talk to you later. When you call. Right, bye.”_

 

The automated timestamp was from over 24 hours ago by the time Phil had a chance to check his phone after the clusterfuck that their latest 084 retrieval had turned into. His phone, along with his person, had been pretty thoroughly fried by a high-voltage tazer. But Fitz had it up and running again as soon as the situation was stable, and Phil was faced with a voicemail from Clint who _really needed to talk_.

 

A heavy lead, not unlike a bullet, settled in Phil’s stomach as he climbed the spiral staircase and headed back to his office to call Clint in the closest thing to privacy that the plane could afford. He considered sitting back in his desk chair, but he was still on edge from leftover mission-adrenaline, and the idea ceasing all motion and waiting for a blow to land made his chest twinge with the aftershocks of phantom pain. Instead, he hit the _call_ button next to Clint’s name and paced a short circuit from the small window to his shelves of memorabilia.

 

The phone rang three times before Clint's voice cut through the dead air abruptly, “Phil!”

 

Even with all the worry churning in his gut, the sound of Clint’s voice still managed to settle Phil, like he stood in the eye of a hurricane. He felt a smile creeping over his mouth to soften his features. “Hey, babe. I’m sorry for taking so long to get back to you. My phone--”

 

“Nah, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

 

“Is everything okay?” Phil asked with a frown.

 

Clint snorted, drawling out, “Peachy-keen.”

 

“You just sounded like there was something important we needed to discuss in your message.”

 

“Ah, yeah. It’s, uh, fine.” Phil could practically _hear_ Clint lifting a hand to rub at the back of his neck, and there was nothing reassuring about Clint’s uncertain tone. “Everything’s kinda already taken care of, so…”

 

“What happened?” Phil demanded.

 

“It’s just a side gig thing. Things got a bit, well, complicated, but it’s all—” a high-pitched wail drowned out Clint’s voice, and Phil pulled back from his phone briefly to regard it with a fair amount of confusion.

 

“Is that a—siren? Why does it sound so off?” The noise in the background was suddenly muffled, and Phil assumed Clint had moved into another room.

 

“Huh? Oh, it’s just the TV. You know,” Clint explained dismissively. “But, uh, look, I’ve gotta go. I’ll tell you about it later?”

 

Phil was still worried, but Clint seemed distracted by whatever was happening on his end of the world. “Sure. I love you, babe.”

 

“Yeah, you too. Bye.”

 

The line went dead and Phil was left scowling at the image of Clint smirking back at him from his phone.

 

* * *

 

It was two days later before Phil had a good chance of catching Clint on the phone again. Well after midnight in the airspace over Europe, Clint in New York would most likely be hunting around for some dinner.

 

Clint picked up and started speaking like they were already in the middle of a conversation. “Is it a Chinese night or a pizza night, darlin’?” The easy familiarity drug up a grin onto Phil’s face.

 

“How’s Lucky’s stomach been lately?”

 

“Chinese it is!” Phil heard a drawer being pulled out, then the shuffle of papers. The last of his worry from the past few days was washed away by warm relief when he realized Clint was at Phil’s apartment, looking through his collection of take-out menus.

 

“Get the lo mein. I don’t want to get back to find grains of fried rice hiding in the couch cushions again.” Phil ordered, confidant Clint would pick up on the undercurrent of teasing in his voice.

 

“That was _one time._ And you were the one that got rice!” Clint griped.

 

“You’re the one that tried to steal it from my box with chopsticks,” Phil pointed out.

 

“Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up. See if I—aw, futz!” On the other end, Phil could make out the clatter of something falling over—something wooden, so probably his coffee table—and the shatter of glass hitting the floor, and he winced while trying not think of the pricey collectibles decorating his living room.

 

“Clint?”

 

“Shiiii—iny. I gotta call you back.”

 

Clint hung up before Phil could ask if he was alright, and Phil sent off a quick text.

 

_Are you okay?_

 

It was a long three minutes before Clint texted him back, but Phil forced himself to maintain the kind of calm he utilized while in the middle of an op crisis.

 

_mostly. just lucky, ya know. knockin shit over. plenty of mess to clean up now._

_Nothing fell on him, did it?_

_its all good. ilu_

_Love you._

Clint didn’t call him back that night, and Phil refused to let it bother him.

 

* * *

 

Phil wasn’t expecting Clint to pick up the next time he called; he already had his message outlined in his head, just waiting for the _beep_ to proceed. Except that Clint did answer.

 

Only caught off guard for a second, Phil said, “So, change of plans. Looks like we’re going to be in New York for a few days at the end of the week.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

Phil picked up a pen from his desk and started tapping out the alphabet in Morse code. “Don’t sound so excited to get to see me or anything.”

 

“No, I am, it’s just.” Clint sighed, explosively, like something had been sitting on his chest for too long and he’d finally managed to push it off. “Uh, so it turns out that thing? That I told you I had covered? Well, I kinda actually do need to talk to you about it.”

 

The pen stilled, Phil gripping it tight enough that it bent back against the pressure from his thumb. “We’re talking now.”

 

“Pretty sure it’s one of those face-to-face things, you know?”

 

“Clint, is everything okay?”

 

“Yeah, fine. It’s all…fine. I just need to talk to you. It’s kinda important.”

 

“Alright. I’ll call you when we’re close?”

 

“Cool.”

 

“I lo—” The line cut out, and Phil choked the rest of his words back down his throat. He hung up and let the phone drop to his desktop, moving his hand to rub at his eyes where he could feel a headache beginning to form. “Shit,” he hissed out.

 

* * *

 

Phil wasn’t looking forward to going back to his apartment, and he was actually hoping to avoid Clint until he’d gotten to sleep in his own bed for a view hours before misery sent him crawling back to the Bus desperate for a mission to get his mind off of Clint. But when he swiped his thumb over the concealed bioscanner next to the door and turned the key in the traditional lock, he could make out the strains of a Beach Boys hit coming from the stereo and Clint’s voice bouncing off the tiles in the kitchen.

 

Phil shut the door silently and fell back against it, closing his eyes. Clint wasn’t singing along with the Oldies station, but talking to himself instead. Practicing his break up speech? _He could have at least decided on some neutral territory_ , Phil thought irritably. Phil had to _live here_ , after this. Or, well, sleep here every month or so.

 

With a sigh, Phil pushed off the wall and slowly made his way further into the apartment. Lucky was curled up on the couch, napping. His ears twitched in Phil’s direction and he snuffled into the grey cushion, but he didn’t stir to greet Phil, which he was immeasurably grateful for without really knowing why. Clint’s low voice drifted over the music, just loud enough to make out as he drew closer to the kitchen.

 

“Alright, so we’ve got you your very own bowl. Time to crack some eggs!”

 

Phil’s brow scrunched together in confusion, and he slunk over to hug the wall so that he could peer into the kitchen without being seen. Clint stood at the island counter, ingredients and bowls and measuring cups spread out across the surface, and standing next to him, no doubt on a stepstool of some sort, was a kid.

 

The little boy was wearing a baggy Chicago Bulls shirt—Phil’s—and there was a light dusting of flour covering his burgeoning afro, patches of almond-colored skin hidden by streaks milky dough. He couldn’t be more than five at the most, and Clint carefully handed over an egg that the kid picked up with both small hands. He brought it down on the edge of the bowl, trying to crack it open, and the delicate shell splintered into a gooey mess.

 

Clint laughed and tussled his hair, sending up a cloud of flour. “Or we can smash ‘em. That works too.” Clint leaned over with a fork to fish out the bits of shell swimming in the yolk.

 

Clint passed over another egg, going back to measuring out cocoa powder while another helping of shell pieces slipped into the bowl. Clint set down the measuring cup and scooped out the new shells, then held up the fork in the bowl for the kid to grab. “Stir, please.” he instructed.

 

The boy grinned and began to whisk the eggs perhaps a bit too enthusiastically, drops of egg landing on the hand curled around the lip of the bowl to hold it still. The movement pushed the large sleeves back on his arms, and Phil caught sight of fading bruises above the kid's elbow. “Easy there, Master Chef. Here, add in the cocoa.”

 

Letting the fork fall against the bowl edge, the handle slipping down precariously close to the eggs, the kid pulled the measuring cup toward him with a cry of, “Chocolate!” Before Clint could stop him, a finger darted out to dip into the cocoa powder, and the kid was licking it clean. His eyes quickly pinched together and he stuck out his tongue, trying to wipe the taste off with his hand. Phil faintly recalled that sour, kind of lack of taste, and wasn’t at all surprised at the betrayed look the kid shot the cocoa.

 

Meanwhile, Clint was laughing, his head thrown back. “Didn’t you learn your lesson with the flour, Nate?” he teased. “I told you, it’s not gonna be good until we mix it all together.” He turned to grab a glass of milk sitting next to the stove and held it up for the boy, Nate apparently, to take a sip.

 

Phil was struck by a sudden memory of a stakeout ages ago, cooped up in a hotel room undergoing renovations with Clint as they ate awful fast food that was always cold by the time another agent dropped it off for them. There’d been no ketchup packets one day, and Clint had pouted at his soggy fries until he'd spotted the pale slice of tomato Phil had peeled off his burger, laying limply on a napkin. He’d poked a few fries into the tomato juice then shoved them in his mouth, only to gag and slurp down half of his soda a second later.

 

Clint took over the stirring from Nate, pointing to ingredients he'd measured out that were sitting at the ready while he whisked. Phil’d never seen him even touch an electric mixer before. Clint always claimed that there was no better low-key workout for his forearms than baking.

 

Phil was more than a little befuddled as to why Clint had brought a child to his apartment and was teaching him to bake, but he was also reasonably certain that the thing Clint’d been meaning to discuss with him concerned Nate, rather than the state of their relationship. Unsure of exactly what it was he was about to step into, Phil nonetheless straightened up and walked into the kitchen, calling out, “What is it we’re making?”

 

Clint and Nate both seemed startled by his entrance, not to mention nervous, though no doubt for very different reasons. Nate’s shoulders hunched forward, and he shuffled over on his stool to curl into Clint’s side. Clint, wrapping an arm around Nate, answered with a shaky smile. “Cake?”

 

“Chocolate cake,” Nate mumbled, his hand curling into a fist as he held on to Clint’s shirt.

 

“Right.” Clint nodded. “Chocolate cake.”

 

“W’sprinkles.”

 

“Yup. Can’t forget those.”

 

Phil made an effort, when he smiled back in greeting, to keep his features from falling into the polite mask he was so accustomed to; it wasn't likely to endear him to a shy, hurt little kid. “Anything I can do to help?”

 

Clint’s head jerked over to the round pans sitting on the stove. “Get those ready?”

 

Phil nodded amiably and made a point of letting his footfalls echo on the tiles as he walked around the island so that Nate could hear him even once he passed behind his back.

 

He set to spreading vegetable oil around the bottom and sides of the pans to keep the cake from sticking, and behind him it was easy to hear Nate whispering to Clint. “That’s Phil?”

 

“The one and only.”

 

“He’s not s’scary.”

 

“I never said he was scary!” Clint sputtered. “I said he’s awesome!”

 

“Uh-huh.”

 

Phil didn’t bother to hold his grin in check since they couldn’t see him. He finished greasing the pans and turned back to the island. “So you know me,” he said, addressing Nate. “Who’re you, big man?”

 

Nate looked Phil’s way, his expression a mix of wariness and curiosity. “’m Nathan.”

 

Phil’s gaze cut to Clint, who smiled innocently. “What he said. He seems to like being called Nate okay, though. Still working on Natty Light.”

 

The unimpressed stare Phil threw back at Clint was surprisingly being mirrored by Nate. Well, they at least could agree that Clint was awful at choosing nicknames. _Smart kid_.

 

“Hey, Nate, why don’t you go find a cartoon we can watch while I pop this in the oven?” Clint suggested, picking up Nate with two hands at his waist and lifting him high up so that when he set him on the floor, Nate was giggling. Nate left the kitchen with another glance back at Phil, and then Phil was finally alone with Clint, face-to-face, for the first time in five weeks.

 

“Clint? Who is he?” he asked quietly, moving close to Clint but hanging back from touching him.

 

“You heard him." Clint shrugged. "He’s Nate.”

 

Phil's eyes narrowed in warning. “Clint.”

 

Clint turned away and started pouring batter into the pans rather than maintain eye contact. “Yeah, so. That’s what I needed to talk to you about? He’s kinda, well, ours now.”

 

Phil blinked, possibly gaped, and reached out to slip his hand into the bend of Clint's elbow and spun him around to face him. “What?”

 

Looking up through his eyelashes meekly, Clint grinned sheepishly. “Uh, surprise?”


	2. 8 Days Earlier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rewind the clock eight days, and the Hawkeyes are on the trail of a smuggling ring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter contains child abuse.

“Don’t you think this is more along the lines of something the police should be handling, boss? I mean, drug dealers?” Kate asked, handing off the hi-tech pair of binoculars to Clint sitting in the passenger’s seat beside her. “This isn’t really our cup of tea, superhero to superhero, even considering we’re on downtime.”

 

“Never said they were _drug dealers_ ,” Clint responded with a huff. He held up the binoculars to his eyes and zeroed in on the roof of the warehouse they were scouting, checking for any visible security on the access door. “I said they were dealing in _something_. Could be drugs, could be heavy-duty firearms, hell, could be prostitutes.”

 

“What the ever-loving hell, Clint?” Kate exclaimed. She threw in a punch to his arm for good measure, and Clint fought hard to hold back a wince. Whoever thought _you hit like a girl_ was an insult had clearly never been decked by one. “This is one of those things, you know, the getting in way over our heads things? You need to call in SHIELD, or at least the local PD if the spies don’t want anything to do with it.”

 

Clint waved his hand at her dismissively. “Need more evidence first. Probable cause, and all that shit.”

 

Kate scoffed, obviously skeptical. “So, what? We’re just here to do a little recon?”

 

“Exactly.”

 

“Right,” Kate drawled out, low and disbelieving.

 

Clint tossed the binoculars over his shoulder into the back seat—“ _Careful_ with those!”—and pulled out his collapsible bow from the case at his feet. “It’ll be fine,” he assured her. “I’ll head in up top while you keep an eye out from here. If things get dicey, you’ll be the first to know that I need you to bust in and save my ass.”

 

He passed over an earbud to Kate, settling his own into his ear after a few turns to fit it in nice and snug so the stupid thing wouldn’t fall out when he started free-climbing the warehouse wall. Leaning forward awkwardly to strap his quiver in place, he continued, “This is the part where you wish me luck. You know, tell me to break a leg.”

 

Kate snorted and checked her own gear. “You somehow manage to always land in a cast whether anyone’s wishing for it or not.”

 

Opening the car door, Clint slunk out and back into the shadows littered across the poorly lit street, calling out his parting shot, “Ain’t no pep talk like a Katie-Kate pep talk.”

 

* * *

 

In all honesty, Clint had been banking on it being a ring of arms dealers, with the warehouse acting as their storage unit while they prepared shipments. The baddies certainly had that sleazy look down pat. Plus they were packing some seriously illegal personal firearms, which weren’t readily available stateside. And there were plenty of crates sitting around the warehouse that seemed to be full of innocuous baby dolls and pea shooters until you found the false-bottom and got a good glimpse at the empty half of the crate.

 

All good clues pointing towards arms smuggling. Until he happened upon a locked room chock-full of cowering kids.

 

“Shitfuck _shit_ ,” Clint hissed over the comm.

 

_“What’d you find?”_ Kate asked.

 

“It’s fucking _kids._ They’re dealing in kids!” he exclaimed.

 

_“What!? Damn it, I’m calling the cops. Can you get out clean?”_

 

“Yeah, yeah.”

 

And Clint _was_ heading out, perfectly willing to bow out on the hero-gig for a night and let a SWAT team handle things before he fucked up somehow and got a kid hurt. Except that on his way back to the roof, it was kind of hard to miss the choked off sob of a kid in pain, and it wasn’t like Clint could just ignore that.

 

So he turned back, hopping down to the overhanging catwalk, and went ahead and knocked an arrow—just in case. It didn’t take long to spot the kid between the crates below, much less the hulking thug towering over him and shaking his little frame with a beefy paw wrapped around the kid’s arm.

 

The baddie growled at the kid in a low, accented voice, but he was turned enough toward Clint that he could read his lips, filling in the blanks that he couldn’t hear. “You go where we say. You not run away. You have no where to run. No one wants you.”

 

The poor kid tried to pull away from the meathead, but it looked like the guy’s grip only tightened, and the kid yelped in pain.

 

Clint’s eyes narrowed as he drew back the string on his bow. He didn’t shout out a warning, didn’t give the asshat a chance to pick the kid up to use as a shield, just let the arrow fly right into the meat of a bulky shoulder. With a squawk, the man fell back, his head whipping around wildly as he searched the rafters for Clint. The kid dropped to the ground and scrambled across the floor to hide in the stacks of crates. Clint lost sight of him but could still make out the sobs he was trying to hold in, keeping a bead on the kid while his eyes remained fixed on the threat.

 

Clint stepped forward out of the shadows, another two arrows drawn taut and aimed at the man. “This’d be your cue to run, dickhead,” he called down with a sneer.

 

The idiot wheeled around and finally caught sight of Clint, his opposite hand pressed around the entry wound left by the arrow shaft. His eyes widened comically, and then he was tripping over himself in his attempts to flee. Clint didn’t relax his stance until the douchebag ran clear of the warehouse floor, then he swung down to the ground quickly, cautiously stepping into the maze of crates while he slung his bow over his shoulder.

 

“Hey, kid? You okay?” A gasping sob to his left. “It’s alright. The bad guy’s gone. I’m here to help you,” Clint said, raising his hands up in a placating gesture even though the kid couldn’t see him.

 

_“Clint, where the hell are you?”_ Kate’s voice cut in on the comm. _“Police are inbound.”_

 

“Got a minor situation here. Be there ASAP,” Clint whispered back. Then, louder, he called out to the kid again. “I’m an Avenger. You know, the superheroes?”

 

A sniffle on the other side of the crate on his right, and then a faint voice asked, “Like Cap’n ‘Merica?”

 

And of course the kid was a Cap fan. How come no one was ever a Hawkeye fan? He was cool. He had the whole _Hunger Games_ thing going with the bow and arrow bit.

 

Sighing, Clint edged around the crate slowly. “Yeah, just like Captain America. I’m one of his friends, you know? We fight the bad guys together.”

 

There was some shuffling just around the corner, and sure enough, a second later a little head appeared from around the corner of a large crate, covered by a well-worn hood. “So who’re you?”

 

“I’m Hawkeye.” Clint grinned and squatted down to his level. “What about you? You got a name?”

 

Kid could pull a pretty condescending _duh_ face, Clint noted. “Nathan. With a _A._ ”

 

Clint nodded and was about to ask Nathan— _Nat? Nah, that one’s already taken, so Nate, then—_ about his parents when Kate’s voice came in again over the comms. _“You need to get out of there, Hawkeye,”_ she advised. _“Unless you want to give a statement to the cops and stick around all night for the clean-up. And, you know, explain what you were doing there in the first place.”_

 

“Almost at the door.”

 

Kate snorted. _“Sure you are.”_

 

“Who’re you talkin’ to?” Nate asked curiously. Clint was pleased to note he’d scooted forward a little on his knees.

 

Clint tapped at his ear. “That’s my partner. She’s waiting outside.”

 

“You got a sidekick?”

 

A laugh slipped out before Clint could catch it. “Don’t let her hear you call her that, Nate. She’ll give you a real nasty look.” Sirens sounded in the distance, getting closer, and instead of beating a fast retreat like he was meant to be doing, Clint held his hand out to the kid. “Think you could come with me so I can get you someplace safe?”

 

Nate gnawed on his bottom lip as he watched Clint with wary brown eyes. The cops were getting close enough that red and blue lights bounced off the grimy warehouse windows. “Hey, it’s okay, buddy. The cops are going to be in here soon. We can just wait for them, okay?”

 

The kid looked suddenly more spooked than ever, and he darted out and threw himself into Clint’s chest, skinny arms going up to loop around his neck before Nate let out a gasp of pain and pulled back to cradle his arm. Clint carefully moved his own arms to scoop Nate up and held him close. “Hey, it’s okay. Your arm hurts, right? We can fix that. Just gotta get out of here first.”

 

Clint didn’t bother with trying to get back to the roof, instead creeping over to the wall and following along it until he came to a door. It was bolted shut, but an explosive charge took care of it quick enough and seemed to impress the kid enough that he forgot about his arm, so bonus points.

 

Kate’s dinky Bug was idling around back, and she glared at Clint when she caught sight of the kid he was carrying. Clint jogged over to the car and slid into the passenger seat, keeping Nate up front with him so he didn’t have to try and get him into the back and risk jarring his arm too much.

 

“I can’t help but notice we’ve picked up an extra passenger.”

 

“Astute observation there, Watson.”

 

Kate rolled her eyes, but put the car in drive and set off at a sedate pass, waiting until they were a few blocks away to switch on the headlights. “So, where to?”

 

“Hospital.” Clint’s mouth pressed into a thin line as Nate burrowed his head under Clint’s chin.

 

Kate’s eyes flickered over long enough to take in the tremors that were jostling Nate’s little body, and there was an audible revving from the engine as she stepped down on the accelerator. “On it.”

 

* * *

 

The radiologist made Clint wait outside while Nate got an x-ray, _just as a precaution_ , they’d assured him. Kate was in the waiting area, flipping through an old _People_ and keeping an ear out for any report on the news about the warehouse raid.

 

Clint took the chance to pull out his phone, checking for messages. He had a text from Nat reminding him about movie night at the Tower, but Clint ignored it and called Phil. He slumped back against the wall, his head falling back with a _thump_ , and tried not to think about the dirty looks the nurses in the ER had given him when he came in with a bruised up kid until he’d pulled out his SHIELD badge and ID. He was in over his head, as usual. And, as usual, he found himself turning to Phil to try and fix things.

 

Phil didn’t pick up, and Clint’s throat closed up for a second before he was able to swallow the feeling down as Phil’s generic voicemail recording played.

 

Clint’s voice wavered as he left a message. _“Hey, darlin’. It’s, uh, Clint. I mean, obviously. So, hey. I just, uh, needed to talk to you. S’why I called. Call me when you get this? Don’t worry about the time, or waking me up or anything. I just, I really need to talk. Okay, so, I’ll talk to you later. When you call. Right, bye.”_

 

Clint thumbed his phone off and flipped it over in his hands, taking deep breaths until he felt calm enough to push away from the wall and stand on steady feet. He looked around the hospital hallway and saw a row of vending machines a little ways down.

 

Nate probably hadn’t eaten in a while, and the kid was skin and bones anyway, so Clint headed down to the snack machine, pulling out his wallet. Once he’d fed a dollar in, though, he stared at the selections blankly with no idea what Nate would like.

 

Kids liked candy, right? So he punched in the numbers for a Snickers bar.

 

But then he remembered that Snickers had nuts, and plenty of kids were allergic to nuts these days, and he certainly had no clue whether or not Nate was, so he put in another dollar and bought a bag of potato chips.

 

What if they were too salty, though? Clint moved over to the drink machine and got a Coke. He wavered for a moment, rocking on his heels, then got a Diet Coke and an orange Fanta as well.

 

Stepping back over to the snack machine, he added crackers to the growing horde. He turned to head back but pivoted halfway down the hall and went back for fruit gummies.

 

The radiologist was leading Nate into the hall when he started back, and Nate was looking around nervously until he spotted Clint. And no, the way he instantly relaxed did not make Clint feel all wobbly inside, _thank you very much_.

 

“Hey, little man!” Clint said with a wide grin. “I got you some snacks since you’ve been doing so good for the docs.”

 

In the interest of complete honesty, at least with himself, Clint had to admit that the happy smile Nate directed his way did in fact melt his insides into a pile of goo. Clint, sucker that he was, was so out of depth that things could only end very, very badly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't help but picture Clint and Kate patrolling the streets and laying low like Bob and Lucius in _The Incredibles_ until a call comes in on the police radio now.

**Author's Note:**

> I've been picturing Nate as Jayden Smith a la _The Pursuit of Happyness_. [Isn't he adorable?](http://cdn.madamenoire.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/01/pursuit-of-happiness-7.jpg)


End file.
